Dovahkyn
by Kirenson
Summary: Of this the skalds and bards did sing, When Alduin flies on midnight wing, And civil war rage 'tween Skyrim's Kings... But one flaw caused their heads to spin, Their one hope left with chance to win... What to do when he is Dovahkyn?
1. Welcome to Skyrim

**Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. I claim no ownership of the Elder Scrolls, its story or its characters; only my OCs. Thanks, Bethesda. =)**

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Welcome to Skyrim**

Throbbing pain at the back of his head greeted Farandomar as he struggled his way out of the blackness and on the path towards consciousness. Repeated jolts travelled through his body and seemed to gather at the injury. With a groan, he attempted to raise his right hand to clutch at the spot and felt bindings tug at his wrists.

"Far?" The whisper was that of a concerned female.

With careful effort, Farandomar tilted his head to try to pinpoint the location of the speaker. "Svana?"

"Don't move too much."

The voice was coming from somewhere to his right. He moved his head slowly to face the source, blinking away more of the fog. A vague shape became a female form; he could make out blonde hair. The figure shifted as the owner sucked in a snot-bogged snort. Farandomar almost smiled. _That's Svana._ As clarity continued to restore itself, he took in her dirty face and puffy, bloodshot eyes. Fresh tears welled up in them as he noticed the long, blood-streaked cut across her left cheek and chin. Pain constricted his chest.

"Not one word," she choked out, before snorting again.

Farandomar averted his gaze to take in their surroundings. The cart accounted for the jolting and the extra pounding in his head, but the thick trees and lack of a moon's light obscured any hint as to their destination. He let his gaze skim past the mounted soldiers and came to rest on the unexpected face of a Khajiit seated beside him. Slitted green eyes stared back. _It's white_ — _and striped,_ he noted with surprise. _So Khajiit aren't_ all _tawny._ Unsettled by its unwavering stare, Farandomar dropped his sights to the bindings around his gold-skinned wrists. There was no fourth passenger.

The road began to tilt downwards and the cart's passengers adjusted their positions to brace against the new angle. A faint splashing and a freshness in the air hinted at a nearby river somewhere at Farandomar's back, although he could not turn himself far enough to look for it. The trees began to thin as they rounded a bend, revealing the stone walls of a city a short distance ahead. Farandomar noticed two more soldiers— _guards?_ —standing in front of the heavy wooden gates.

The cart creaked to a halt before the gate as the soldiers dismounted. Farandomar's heart began to race. One of the soldiers approached the two at the gate and spoke quietly with them. Money was exchanged, and the two guards stepped aside, their backs to the travelling party. Farandomar's brow creased.

 _What is going on here?_

"Ride's over. Get out," grunted one of the dismounted soldiers.

Farandomar struggled to maintain his balance as he rose to his feet. The Khajiit nimbly leaped from the back of the cart, followed by Svana. As Farandomar braced himself against the flash of pain in his head from landing, strong hands grabbed his arms in a painful grip. He stumbled after his captors as they dragged him towards the gate. He heard Svana shriek behind him.

"Far!"

"Shut her up. She'll wake everyone."

His captors halted before the gate. One slid a hand along the heavy wood and pushed the door open a crack, while the other held Farandomar firm. The soldier he had observed speaking with the two guards approached, drawing an iron dagger from his belt. While Farandomar couldn't see the soldier's expression under his heavy helm, he knew the soldier had noticed him blanch.

"Now... We want to know where you damned Thalmor have taken Ulfric Stormcloak. We know you were involved in his capture."

Farandomar's eyes widened. Before he could respond, the soldier continued.

"You were a fool to venture into Stormcloak territory. And before you say anything—" The soldier pointed his knife at the gates. "—the good people of Riften have grown accustomed to the sight of bodies floating in the docks. Answer us straight, Justiciar, or you'll be one of them."

A hacking sound caused Farandomar to turn his head. The Khajiit was laughing. "That one is 'Altmer', not 'Thalmor'." Suddenly sobered, its eyes narrowed and took on a sly gleam. "This one wonders whether Stormcloaks have such trouble distinguishing between their mothers, sisters and wives, hmm?"

The soldier— _Stormcloak?_ —shoved the gate to Riften open. "Exactly what I would expect from one of their pet cats."

Farandomar stumbled over the rough stone paving as he was dragged into Riften. Stone walls reared up on either side, channeling his view to the city centre ahead. The space between the wooden platforms seemed to widen as they approached, plunging down into darkness. Farandomar could hear the sloshing of water somewhere below. How far below—and how deep—he couldn't tell.

They halted beside a gap in the railings. The apparent 'leader' glanced around the empty streets, then leaned in close. Farandomar tried not to shy away and failed.

"Answer me quickly, High Elf. Where did they take Ulfric?"

"I don't know—I don't know who Ulfric _is_." The words tumbled out over the top of one another before retribution could follow. One of his captors tightened their grip.

Their leader sighed and held up one finger. "Three wrong answers and you join the fish. That was _one_." He lowered his hand, then glanced between the empty streets.

Another hacking laugh from the Khajiit. "What's the matter? Lioness on the prowl?"

The Stormcloak leader's jaw clenched. "Second question, High Elf. Why are you in Skyrim? Where were you going?"

Farandomar breathed a sigh of relief. "Markarth. Our destination was Markarth." _Where Talos is worshipped freely under law._

The Stormcloak's expression curled into a nasty grin as he turned to address the now-grim Khajiit. "Heading to Markarth, and _not_ Thalmor?"

Ugly chuckles from the other Stormcloaks made Farandomar's relief wither inside his belly. _Have we come all this way, in pursuit of a lie?_

The Stormcloak leader grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him toward the edge of the platform. Before he could steady himself, one foot slipped and met nothing but air. He couldn't hide his panic as he met the glare of his captor. "So. You're either Thalmor up to your pointy ears, or were heading to sign up. That's your second wrong answer."

The Stormcloak leader had just begun to draw breath to ask his third question when the Altmer's keen hearing picked up the sound of distant, rolling thunder. Instead of dying away, the rumble continued to build, louder and closer, as he watched the Stormcloak's chest inflate. The Khajiit whimpered, having also picked up the sound. Too fast, too loud for thunder.

Then it was on top of them in an explosion of sound that shook the very earth.

 _DOVAHKIIN!_

Staggering under the onslaught, the Stormcloak leader released his hold on Farandomar and grabbed the closest railing. Already too far overbalanced, Farandomar felt the trembling edge of the wooden platform slip from underfoot. He tried to throw his weight forward, tried to reach out... The bindings around his wrists held firm and the laws of gravity were granted their due observance. Farandomar braced himself as he promptly made the aquaintance of Riften's harbour.

* * *

 **Commentary** (skip if you like) **:  
**

 **Hi. No, I wasn't really going to make you suffer through Helgen again. It's a great introductory opening for the game, but it doesn't suit the purpose for this. I'm aiming to keep this as lore-friendly as I can, with one noticeable exception. It was a concept that amused me, and after studying the lore, found it borderline plausible, albeit extremely unlikely. Hopefully it will entertain you, also.**

 **Comments are appreciated, even if it's just "hi" or "I read it".**

 **/salutes**


	2. Drawing First Blood

**Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. I claim no ownership of the Elder Scrolls, its story or its characters; only my OCs. Thanks, Bethesda. =)**

 _ **Hopefully I don't lose too many of you once we meet our "Dovahkyn". Explanation in commentary after the story, if you're still around.**_

* * *

 **Chapter 2: Drawing First Blood**

Green eyes tracked the butterfly's path as it danced through the western forest of Hjaalmarch. Such beautiful prey. The owner of the eyes hunkered low, out of sight in the tall grass. Slow, smooth. Coiled. The dirty fingers of one small hand inched forward to wrap around the rough bark of one root. A single blue mountain flower slid to the ground from the lip of a sack as it was abandoned and forgotten at the base of the tree.

The butterfly began to flit towards its hunter, whose lips curled into a vicious grin as she congratulated herself. Losing her companion had been a smart choice. Trying to hunt butterflies with Zash around was like trying to sneak up on someone while banging pots together. Of course, he had yelled a bit as he blundered through the bushes— _Get back here, Lysara, or I'm going to break_ both _your legs!_ —but had soon fallen silent. He was lost. She was gone.

Her euphoria faded, replaced by prickings of guilt. She'd make it up to him later.

Maybe.

The butterfly weaved back and forth in front of her, its brilliant blue wings tantalizing, but out of reach. Lysara drew one silent breath and held it, careful not to alert her prey. Her hand uncurled from the tree root and she began to rise. A warm gust of wind picked up, rustling the grass and flinging the butterfly into frenzied movement along with it.

Lysara lunged, but too late. Her palms slammed against the tree's trunk, empty. She whirled away from the tree and glared at the blue speck as it fluttered high above the next hill. Another warm breeze ruffled her short hair. The butterfly fanned its wings twice in mocking farewell as it disappeared over the other side, forever.

Fingernails bit into the palms of the Breton's hands. She seized a handful of the grass she had been hiding behind and ripped it from the ground. " _Oblivion take you!_ " she screamed.

A large shadow rushed overhead. Lysara flung herself into a sideways roll. As she scrambled to her feet, a thunderous roar forced her to abandon the dark magicka swamping her fists so she could block her ears instead. Her eyes screwed shut against the pain. _Just... stop!_ The earth trembled under her feet as something crashed down amongst the trees some distance away. She opened her eyes, to find... nothing.

Lysara found her mouth was very dry.

 _What was_ that? she wondered. Her wide eyes scanned the area, but found no trace of the creature. Flickers of darkness gathered between her fingers. She would not cast, not yet. The creature had been alerted by her shouting; it might be sensitive to magicka as well. Another roar sent goosebumps shivering up the Breton's arms. Whatever it was, it was huge.

She missed Zash.

Almost as if he had heard her unspoken wish, a familiar deep voice bellowed from the crash site.

"You dare challenge me?! Prepare for your death!"

Lysara released a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding and raised herself from her crouch. She was safe.

 _I shouldn't have made so much noise over a silly butterfly._

Snapping branches and the crunching of underbrush met her ears. _It must be as big as a mammoth. A mammoth that flies._ Whatever the creature was, they would probably end up eating it tonight. An awful thought struck Lysara like an unexpected torchbug to the face. _It better_ not _be a flying, disgusting mammoth..._

Zash's voice rang out again, startling the Breton from her musings. "You cannot escape me!"

A pang of alarm shot through Lysara. Would the creature turn back in her direction? Wisps of smoke rose from the trembling treetops. She frowned. _A fire mammoth?_ The trembling of the treetops stilled. It seemed the creature was still fixated on Zash.

 _Good._

But what if it was one of those creatures whose corpses destroyed themselves? She would never know what it had been. The sack forgotten, Lysara took a few tentative steps forward. At the creature's next roar, her stride quickened. A few more paces and she was sprinting down the side of the hill, hands smothered in darkness as she cast again and again. Daedric greaves encased her legs and feet as she hurdled a fallen log; a weightless helm formed around her head.

 _Faster!_

Scents of smoke filled Lysara's nostrils as she stormed up the next rise. Taloned gauntlets shimmered into existence, obscuring her clenched fists as she crashed between two smouldering bushes. Several trees were still aflame, surrounded by blackened ground. Lysara skidded to a halt.

"Akatosh," she breathed.

It was a dragon, she knew. She recognized its rearing form from the shrine. She also recognized the Dremora clinging to the back of the dragon's arching neck in a vain attempt to choke it.

 _Zash._ Lysara swallowed the lump in her throat. What chance did they stand against a god? Her hands began to tremble, threatening to unravel all of her summoning. Well, it was _her fault_ Akatosh found them. Lysara gripped her summoned weapons tighter, braced herself and charged toward the battle. "F-For the glory of Lord Dagon!"

The dragon lowered its head towards the Breton and opened its jaws wide. Before it could lunge for the fatal bite, a daedric longsword burst through the roof of its mouth like a large and bloody extra tooth. Lysara stumbled backward as the beast began to thrash its death throes. Zash hung on like a burr, his armoured legs wrapped around one of the dragon's horns to prevent him from being flung from his perch. As Lysara watched, he began to lean heavily to the side, dragging at the longsword with his weight. The dragon's neck strained against the pressure as it gasped for breath. Exhausted, it submitted to the weight. Zash released his grip around the dragon's horn and his longsword and rolled clear as the dragon crashed onto its side.

Lysara couldn't help staring as the Dremora lunged to his feet, dusting ash and dirt from his indigo hair. _Zash killed_ Akatosh!

He turned to face her and scowled. "And what did you propose to do with _those?_ " he snarled, before stepping to retrieve his longsword.

All elation faded as Lysara lifted the two bows she had summoned. She released the magicka and hung her head as blood rushed to her face. _Lord Dagon, Prince of Destruction... please open a canyon under me._

Zash sheathed his longsword as he rejoined Lysara. He pointed to the forest behind her. "Get your things. This hunting trip is _over_."

Despite herself, Lysara pouted. The danger was over now, what good would—?

The dragon's corpse began to crackle and jerk.

"Behind you!" she shrieked.

Zash whirled, daedric longsword drawn in a second, as the jerking corpse burst into flame. Wisps of white light streamed from the now-glowing skeleton, whipping towards them with the howl of the strongest of winter gales. Lysara watched, wide-eyed, as the Dremora charged into the wisps, longsword a blur of motion as he fought to bring down as many as he could.

 _They can't be cut,_ she realized in horror, as the sword passed through the lights without altering their course. They continued to swarm around the panicked Dremora, slipping past or through his every defense. Darkness swamped Lysara's hands, but too late. The light streams were already fading. She let the magicka fade and rushed to the Dremora's side.

"Zash!" She peered up at his face. His fiery orange eyes seemed unfocused; the slitted pupils were unusually wide. "Are you alright?"

A snarl curled the Dremora's dark lips. "We are leaving." He glared up at the sky and broken branches. "There may be more of _His_ spawn."

 _That wasn't Akatosh?_ Lysara felt a queasy stirring in her belly. _There's_ another _dragon?_

A red fox darted around a smouldering bush and rushed through the clearing without so much as a glance at the occupants. A brown rabbit followed the fox.

Lysara paused. _Something's coming._

Treetops shook; the ground trembled beneath their feet. Lysara tripped and fell, as Zash dropped to one knee.

 _DOVAHKIIN!_

Then all was still.

Lysara wiped ash and dirt from her hands onto her skirt as she rose. "Another one?"

"No."

She turned to look as Zash strode to her side, his expression puzzled. _Well, what was it?_ she wanted to ask. Instead, she bit her lip. _Better not interrupt._

"Lord Dagon?"

Lysara's brow furrowed. "What?"

The confusion on Zash's face vanished. "Mehrunes Dagon calls, Mortal." A grin broke through his usual stormy countenance.

Lysara blinked, stunned. _Zash is actually_ happy _about something._ A second thought followed: _This can't be good._

* * *

 **Commentary:**

 **Apologies for the wait. This chapter was a _mongrel_ to write and fought every word of the way. **

**Yes, we have a Dremora dragonborn. After reading up on a lot of lore, I didn't find anything that ruled out this intriguing possibility. I decided to run with it.** **There are many people out there who know a lot more about lore than I do.** **There may be lore out there that does rule this out; I just couldn't find it. I hope you can enjoy this story, regardless. Some of you may also have religious or personal objections to this. That's cool.**

 **"Devotees of Dibella" are also likely to be disappointed.**


	3. Riften

**Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. No copyright infringement is intended. Thanks for the great game, Bethesda!**

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Riften**

Svana watched the Stormcloak swing Farandomar over the edge and screamed into her gag. Inside, her chest felt like a bear was clawing it apart.

 _Please, not Far, too! I can't lose Far, too!_

"So. You're either Thalmor up to your pointy ears, or were heading to sign up. That's your second wrong answer."

Her eyes screwed shut with the pain. Tears streamed freely down her face. Beside her, she heard the Khajiit whimper.

 _DOVAHKIIN!_

Svana stumbled as the world bucked. She opened her eyes just in time to see the Khajiit plant a solid kick into the stomach of the Stormcloak behind it. She blinked.

As the Stormcloak hit the cobbles, the Khajiit lunged at Svana, bound hands raised and a snarl twisting its face. Pain flashed across Svana's wrists as pale claws sliced through her bindings. Warm, wet blood welled up from the wounds as her hands flew to remove her gag. The world continued to shake, but the fury of striped white fur seemed oblivious to the tremors.

No sooner had the bindings parted than the Khajiit sprang for the Stormcloak who had been holding Svana, twisting in the air with an ear-splitting yowl. Its feet thudded into the Stormcloak, who slammed into one of the narrow trees before crashing to the dirt in a heap. The Khajiit had rolled to its feet even before its back touched the cobbles of the road.

As the ground stabilized beneath her, Svana spotted an iron sword belonging to one of the downed Stormcloaks. She looked up. The Stormcloak leader hauled himself upright against the wooden railings, while the other two Stormcloaks drew their swords and advanced on the snarling Khajiit. A bolt of alarm shot through her.

 _They're going to kill him! Her?_

Svana's fingers trembled as she wrapped them around her new sword. A bead of blood tickled its way from her wrist down to the leather of the handgrip.

" _Rasarin!_ "

Svana spared a glance down the main street and located the source of the cry. The Stormcloaks also paused to look. An enormously tall, blonde newcomer bore down on the group, tightening buckles on leather armour as she ran. Her blade was already drawn in one hand.

The Khajiit straightened. "Mjoll!"

The Stormcloak leader made a sharp gesture to the rising Stormcloak who had been the recipient of the Khajiit's first kick. "Call the guards! Go! _Go!_ "

Svana flinched as the Khajiit's whiskers tickled her cheek. Its voice was a low whisper. "This one thinks Mjoll will handle them better with our absence. Follow closely."

"We can't—"

Rasarin swung away, overriding any protest. Svana cursed. She ducked to the left, keeping pace with Rasarin's light sprint towards the Stormcloak leader. His lunge halted short when Mjoll grabbed a handful of his cloak. The Khajiit flashed its teeth at him as they ran down the stairs to the harbour. Once they reached the lower walkway, Rasarin spun to face Svana with arms extended and hands spread. A plea. Svana eased her sword between the Khajiit's wrists and severed the bindings.

" _By order of the Jarl, all of you stop right where you are!_ "

"Ignore that," whispered Rasarin. "Wait while this one gets your friend." The slitted green eyes flicked to the ruckus above. "We will need to run."

Svana swallowed the bitterness that welled up in her throat. _We're always running. Skyrim was supposed to be safe._ Nothing moved at the top of the staircase, although the shouting continued. She heard a splash as Farandomar was hauled onto the walkway. _Please be okay, Far._

" _Run!"_ Rasarin jerked Svana's elbow and took off at a sprint, half-dragging the dripping Altmer. "This way!"

 _Damn you, that hurt!_ Svana scowled. Golden eyes filled with concern made sure she was pursuing. The scowl deepened. "Watch where you're going, Far!"

They passed several doors, but their guide ignored them all. One loose board flexed beneath Svana's foot. _Oh Divines._

The Khajiit released Farandomar and bounded up another flight of stairs. It crouched for a moment at the top, ears and tail twitching back and forth, then made a sharp gesture for them to follow.

Svana exhaled. _Here we go._

A large, gentle hand pressed against the small of Svana's back. She reached behind to grip Farandomar's sodden arm. _You're still here. I'm still here. We'll make it through this._

They had almost reached the top of the stairs when Rasarin swung to the left. Svana noticed the Khajiit's tail stiffen, erect.

"The building straight ahead—Go!"

A blonde, sad-eyed Nord dropped her broom as they burst through the doors. "The Bunkhouse isn't an inn. I'd recommend—"

" _Does it look like this one has need of Dibella right now?!_ "

The woman froze; the rest of her words dead on her lips. The Khajiit ignored her and pressed its ear against the rough wood of the door.

 _That was uncalled-for._ Svana glared at Rasarin's back as she retrieved the broom, then held it out to the sad-eyed Nord as a peace offering. She attempted to smile. "You didn't deserve that."

The door latch clicked as Rasarin slipped into the night.

"I think you should leave." The woman accepted the broom as if it were a snake. She stared at Svana's bloody arm. "And take your trouble with you."

"But—!"

"Quiet, please, Svana," mumbled Farandomar. He had assumed Rasarin's previous position, but now stepped back. "Someone's coming." Svana swallowed.

A white paw striped with dark brown edged the door open. _Rasarin._ "All is clear for the moment." The Khajiit motioned for them to join it outside. A broad, friendly grin split its face as it pointed to a house close to what Svana guessed was the city's main gate. "That house belongs to Aerin, a friend. Tell him Rasarin sent you."

Farandomar grabbed the Khajiit as their guide began to creep away. His eyes were narrowed. "Where are _you_ going?"

The Khajiit pried his fingers from its forearm. "This one intends to retrieve what the Stormcloaks have stolen. We can exchange pleasantries—and farewells—then."

* * *

Svana found herself trailing behind Farandomar's new tour guide as they dawdled through the market the next morning, bitterly wishing either he or she was somewhere else. _Not that there's anything_ wrong _with the man,_ she admitted to herself. _I'm sure I'd be pleased with his company any other day._

Today, however, the thin copper amulet in her pocket weighed far too much.

 _If only you were here to see this._

Farandomar halted on the bridge ahead. A thin smile was all Svana had to offer the merchant whose wares she had been admiring as she excused herself. Drawing alongside the Altmer, she noted his stiff posture as he stared into nothing and squashed the urge to poke him in the ribs.

"Last night," he muttered.

Svana turned to look again.

 _The tree._

 _The edge._

 _The_ guards _._

She tried to suppress a shudder, with mixed success. _Rasarin_ said _she'd smoothed things over, but I don't think it's a coincidence she vanished with the sunrise. The sooner we're done with this tour and on our way to Whiterun, the better._

"Ah, Honorhall Orphanage. Now _that's_ a tale worth telling."

Both Svana and Farandomar jumped at their forgotten guide's reappearance. The wooden railing creaked as the Imperial leaned forward to rest on it. "It's a story best served after a few tankards in the tavern at night, but..." He shrugged his shoulders.

Farandomar cautiously lowered himself to copy their guide's relaxed posture. "Go on, Marcurio."

 _Oh, here we go again. Thanks, Far._ Svana crossed her arms and slouched her hip against the rail, prompting another creak from the aged wood. _I hope it's strong enough to hold all of us._

"Five or six years ago, Honorhall Orphanage was run by an old hag named Grelod. Not an actual _hag_ hag," Marcurio amended himself. "But she was just missing feathers, I swear."

 _Town gossip is so cruel._ Svana rolled her eyes and huffed, loud enough to make her displeasure known. _Poor old woman._

"No, I stand by that. Guards found shackles on the walls when they searched the place."

"Shackles?!" Anger, shock and horror bubbled in Svana's stomach. _Those poor children..._

"Why wasn't anything done?"

Marcurio shot them both a dark sideways glance. "Same reason nothing is ever done around here, I suppose. We're jumping ahead of the story, though." He kicked his boot against one of the railing posts. "One of the orphans eventually managed to escape to Windhelm, where he began obsessively trying to summon the Dark Brotherhood."

 _Good._ Svana glowered at the heavy doors. _And I hope they got her._

"When Grelod caught word of it, she started killing the orphans."

The wooden rail squeaked under Farandomar's white-knuckled grip.

"Eventually, the Dark Brotherhood sent one of their murderers, posing as an orphan. The guards heard the screaming, and when they finally broke through the door... they found the place awash with blood. Everyone was in hysterics. They found Grelod's head and body in different rooms." His voice had dropped low, but every word was clear and slow. "Her blood stains the floorboards and walls to this very day."

Another shudder swept through Svana. Tiny prickles ran up her arms as every hair stood upright.

All of a sudden, Marcurio clapped his hands and straightened, grinning when the mood shattered. "Like I said, a good one for the tavern at night. Shall we move on?" Without waiting for a reply, he strode off the bridge.

Seconds later, Svana found herself struggling to tune out everything she never wanted to know about Mistveil Keep and its Jarl. _Darn it, Far._ The copper amulet skimmed across her knuckles as she shoved her hands back into her pockets. Her fingers wrapped it tight in her fist.

An image of a crumpled body dumped in bushes beside the road flashed across her mind.

Without thinking, she reached up to rub the thin cut on her face. The healing potion had done its work well, but the scratch and scar that remained still itched. _We'd just crossed the border. We'd made it._

Svana closed her eyes against the hot, wet prickling that threatened to blur her vision. The amulet's edge dug into her palm like a blunt knife as she released a deep sigh. "Marcurio."

"Hm?" The Imperial half-turned, silenced for a moment.

 _Thank Talos. I don't give a skeever's about Riften or anything in it._ Aloud, she asked, "Is there a priest or temple here?"

Amber eyes studied her face. "I can take you to the Temple of Mara." As Farandomar's fingers gripped Svana's shoulder, understanding softened Marcurio's expression. "There's a priest of Arkay there."

* * *

 **Commentary: I do not like this chapter and insult both it and all of its ancestors. I am giving up on it and moving on to the next one. There will never be such a long wait between chapters again.**

 **Edit: No, I owe everyone a better apology than that. Dog and I bought a patch of dirt and all our time had been focused on the large kennel's construction design. I find it very difficult to write and stay serious at the same time, so end up with quite a few "cracked" versions of each chapter that never see the light of day beyond my notebook. Please accept the below "cracked" snippet as token of my gratitude and measure of my apology.**

* * *

Svana tailed along behind Farandomar's new tour guide as they navigated their way through the market.

"So, we can get the Ratway Pokestop from here," advised Marcurio, giving his phone a tap. He pointed over the bridge to a large stone building. "And over here, we have Mistveil Keep Gym. I would ask that if you are not yet level 5 and/or have not yet picked a team, that you consider joining Team Instinct."

Svana immediately joined Team Valor.

Ahead, Farandomar froze on the bridge. As she came up alongside him, he muttered, "Last night."

The tree.

The edge.

The _guards._

"Well, if you'd been looking where you were going instead of chasing after that Zubat, you wouldn't have walked off the edge!" she snapped.

Farandomar's stare was icy. "And you wouldn't have walked into that tree."

 **(I'm so sorry.)**


	4. White Striped Lies

**Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. No copyright infringement is intended. Thanks for the great game, Bethesda!**

* * *

 **Chapter 4: White Striped Lies**

"Claim coincidence all you like. This one is still flattered to be followed all the way to Whiterun." Rasarin's cheeks ached as she forced her false smile to widen.

Marcurio folded his arms across his chest. "Honestly didn't know you'd be here. There aren't many other central, neutral cities with such good weather at this time of year."

"Much like someone this one knows."

Rasarin's eyes sparkled as the mage huffed a sigh and lowered his shaking head. _That's one in my favour, you fence-sitting, snarking peacock._ She turned back into the warmth of the campfire and resumed stirring the pot of soup. The aroma made her whiskers twitch. _Such a mouth-watering blend._ _Atahbah, you have surpassed yourself._

"That looks ready." Atahbah wiped her hands on her brown apron. She rose from her crouch and smiled, first at the Nordic woman, then at the Altmer. "The evening has a chill to it, no? Come, join us for this meal."

Rasarin grabbed a nearby scrap of cloth and wiggled the pot onto one of the large stones rimming the fire. _That should keep any leftovers warm until we're ready._

Because she didn't intend to leave any.

While Marcurio, Svana and Farandomar settled into the circle of warmth, Rasarin offered the first bowl to Ri'saad.

"They had best shelter within the walls tonight," he said, with a nod towards the gate. "And keep your bow close."

Rasarin's left ear flicked. "Did you overhear something more about Helgen?"

Ri'saad slowly shook his head.

"A pity. More will be learned in the morning, this one is sure."

When Rasarin returned to the fireside, she noticed their guests had already begun their meal. Her stomach growled. Atahbah held out another full bowl. "For Khayla, if you please."

Svana looked up as Rasarin passed. "This is _very_ nice. What's in it?"

"Hawk."

Both she and the Altmer began to choke. Marcurio paused, then lowered his spoon.

 _Two in my favour._

" _RASARIN!"_ Atahbah stood bolt upright and lashed her tail. "This one assures you, it is _chicken_ , not hawk." She stabbed a finger away from the campsite. "Soup. Khayla. _Now._ "

The dark Khajiit was perched on the large boulder at the edge of the camp, where the light from the fire wouldn't hamper her night vision. She accepted the bowl without turning.

" _And if Ma'randru-jo chooses not to collect his share, then Ma'randru-jo chooses to go hungry!_ "

Khayla and Rasarin exchanged delighted grins.

Mirth evaporated in an instant as thunder-that-was-not-thunder boomed across the stars. Rasarin scrabbled for her bow. Steel shrieked beside her as Khayla drew her blade.

 _What beast_ — _?_

A stream of flame illuminated the top of the watchtower in the west, casting the treetops in sharp relief.

Rasarin gulped. _If this one wants to stay Thane of this Hold, this one better do something._

"Khayla, stay here and guard the others."

Without waiting for a response, Rasarin leaped from the rock and sprinted towards the watchtower. Ahead, a dark shape thumped onto the ramparts. Bricks and mortar showered down from the spot in large chunks as the dark form lifted itself back into the air. Rasarin shrugged her bow back across her shoulder, barely breaking stride. Broken screams burned into dead air under another curtain of flame.

Silence, then.

Rasarin slowed to a walk. The heavy beat of wings mocked her. _Too late. Far too late._ One ear twitched backwards, where thudding footfalls approached. _It seems this one has reinforcements of one's own. How nice._

Another blast of fire spewed from the dragon, away from the watchtower this time. Rasarin's eyes narrowed as she spotted dark shapes amid the orange light. _Something has its attention. Perhaps it is not too late. Not yet._ She half-turned to catch the attention of her three followers. "Some still live! Quickly!"

The dragon's body plummeted; a screaming, clawing patch of ink silhouetted against burning scrub. Rasarin flinched at the crunch of impact. She spotted the archer soon afterward—the spikes of Daedric armour impossible to miss, even in the dark.

 _We could use this veteran's advice._

"We're here to help!" Svana's voice rang clear, a clarion in battle.

The archer's bow vanished. Its owner retreated several steps as the horned helm swung in their direction. Closer now, Rasarin spied the edges of a rough skirt covering what could only have been Daedric greaves. _A woman, then._

Decision apparently made, the armoured warrior bolted towards the struggling dragon.

 _You're right. The battle is not yet won,_ Rasarin chided herself. _To think, I rebuked those two for the same thing last night._ Twin flashes of red appeared on her right. _At least Marcurio retains his sense._

"Farandomar, head to the right. Spread out a bit," the mercenary instructed. A single icy light popped into existence a few paces away, marking the Altmer's location.

 _I had better stay close to our new friend. Oh, my poor legs..._

Speed—the ally of all Khajiit—brought her alongside their new acquaintance in one rapid burst. The metallic taste of blood, hot on Rasarin's tongue, robbed any words she might have said as she gasped for air.

The Daedric woman recoiled. "No! _Go away!"_ she wailed.

Rasarin's step faltered. She stared at the small figure hidden beneath the Daedric plate. _Too small for a grown woman, but surely_ — _?_

Ahead, the dragon stilled for the briefest moment; then its corpse began to crackle and jerk. The group slowed to a stop, uncertain.

"Zash! _The lights!_ "

An unnatural darkness smothered the girl's hands; too thick for Rasarin to make out the shape of her gestures. Inky, snapping void coalesced beside the summoner into another—far larger—Daedric figure. The Dremora's slitted pupils met Rasarin's own for an instant. A bolt of fear raced down her spine, setting all her dorsal fur on end.

Hell burned within that gaze.

Before anyone could react to the sudden apparition, lights burst from the dragon's glowing carcass. Rasarin noted the Dremora's unbalanced stagger and ducked. Its ill-placed swing whistled overhead.

" _Watch_ it, Sugar-tail!" she hissed.

The dragon's soul whipped through the group, howling lights tugging at hair and clothes as it sought its defiant resting place. When the gale finally subsided, an awkward silence fell upon the group, leaving only the crackle of burning shrubbery and panting.

Rasarin let the moment stretch a little longer, then tipped from her crouch to sit flat on her backside. "This one has seen stranger things, perhaps."

"You're a _child!_ "

Rasarin winced at Svana's outburst, as the young mage retreated closer to the Dremora. _Should have let that silence stand. Now we begin with the problems._ She noticed Marcurio trying to catch her eye. This situation required delicate handling, she knew. Lesser daedra frequently turned on their conjurers as they departed the realm, and Dremora?

Always.

The young mage's gauntlets disappeared with twin pops. Her trembling hands could not be hidden from the Khajiit's sharp eyes. A guilty pang accompanied the observation. "I am _not_ a child. Please go away."

"You're very accomplished for your age." Marcurio kept his voice gentle, steady. He made a show of extinguishing the flames surrounding his hands, leaving only the icy glow provided by Farandomar for light. While he addressed the young conjurer, Rasarin noted the tension in his posture. His eyes never left the Dremora's. "Did you use a scroll?"

Another _pop_ ; the horned helmet disappeared. The young Breton's unkempt hair had been cut short, but stuck out at odd angles. Sawn off in chunks with a dagger, Rasarin guessed. Dark circles shadowed her fierce eyes. " _No._ I don't need _scrolls_. Go away!"

The mercenary's fingers inched into loose fists by his sides. _Ready to cast,_ Rasarin noted. He kept his words low, but quick, as he asked the girl, "Do you know how to banish your Dremora? Do you need me to help?"

Before she could answer, the young mage was hauled backward by the daedric apparition in question. The Dremora stepped in front of her, his sword held low and a snarl on his face. Marcurio's fists began to spark as he dropped into a fighter's crouch—lightning magic, this time. Farandomar's icy light intensified.

"No, thank you," came the squeaked response from behind the armoured bulk.

A horn blasted close by, cutting off further conversation. Rasarin groaned. Irileth had arrived. _Now we very much have problems._

" _BY ORDER OF THE JARL_ , _ALL OF YOU STAY WHERE YOU ARE!"_

Contrary to the command, the Dremora began to edge a retreat, but bumped into the girl behind him. "Move. Run," he muttered.

Rasarin pricked up at the words. _That's odd._

The girl's whispered response piqued her Khajiit curiosity further. "One of the archers or mages will spot me. I'm too tired, Zash."

 _Even more odd._ One of Rasarin's ears flicked. _Dremora guard their names, and these two know each other. This one will need to ask Marcurio how that could be._

Additional speculation would have to wait, however. Guardsmen ringed the group, cutting off any further opportunity for escape. One excited man shouted, "Which of you is _Dragonborn_?"

Dragonborn.

Rasarin wrinkled her nose, wracking her brain for anything familiar about the word. _Nordic legend; noisy dragon-slayer._ She glanced back to the stripped skeleton sprawled across the ground. _Eater of dragon souls. But the lights went into_ — _?!_

One clawed finger stabbed towards the young conjurer, full of false confidence. " _She_ is Dragonborn." The lie fell from the Khajiit's lips with practiced ease, even as she tried to ignore the startled jolt from Svana, and the slow warning shake of Marcurio's head.

 _What would you have this one say instead?_ she mentally snapped at him. ' _A_ Dremora _is your 'Dragonborn'!?'_ _They would never believe it._

Irileth shouldered her way through the circle of guardsmen, whose excited voices had begun to rise, each trying to drown each other out in their demands for a Shout. "Enough of this nonsense!" she roared, silencing them back to attention. "The dragon is dead. We must _all_ head back to Whiterun straight away. Jarl Balgruuf will want to know what happened here." Turning her attention to the group within the circle, the Dunmer scowled from mage to mage, unsure whom to address. "Dismiss the Dremora."

 _Ohh,_ bad _idea._ Rising to her feet, Rasarin spread her hands in a helpless gesture. "Would that we _could_ , Housecarl." Her mind spun, searching for and discarding a dozen excuses in an instant. "The Dragonborn wears a cursed ring. It won't come off, and the Dremora can't be banished." _This one's tongue will turn blue at this rate._

Irileth's scowl deepened. "Farengar will no doubt have some complicated thoughts on that matter." She stared hard at the young summoner, who immediately put her hands behind her back. "In my opinion, the loss of one finger is a cheap price to pay to be rid of a daedric curse."

Both the girl and the Dremora snarled.

With no choice but to be escorted, the group picked their way back up the hill to Whiterun. Rasarin continued to study the pair, noting the rest of the group doing the same. Darkness swamped the young mage's hands behind her back, encasing them in gauntlets once more. Satisfied her lies would hold up to casual inspection, the Khajiit turned her attentions to the sliver of moon above.

 _Curiosity killed the cat, as they say._


End file.
